Roy T. Bennett – The more you can have control over your ego rather than let it run amuck, the more successful you’ll be in all areas of life.

Henry Miller – There is a theory that when a planet, like our earth for example, has manifested every form of life, when it has fulfilled itself to the point of exhaustion, it crumbles to bits and is dispersed like star dust throughout the universe. It does not roll on like a dead moon, but explodes, and in the space of a few minutes, there is not a trace of it visible in the heavens. In marine life we have a similar effect. it is called implosion. When an amphibian accustomed to the black depths rises above a certain level, when the pressure to which it adapts itself is lifted, the body bursts inwardly. Are we not familiar with this spectacle in the human being also? The Norsemen who went berserk, the malay who runs amuck are these not examples of implosion and explosion? When the cup is full it runs over. but when the cup and that which it contains are one substance, what then? There are moments when the elixir of life rises to such over brimming splendor that the soul spills over. In the seraphic smile of the madonnas the soul is seen to flood the psyche. The moon of the face becomes full; the equation is perfect. A minute, a half minute, a second later, the miracle has passed. something intangible, something inexplicable, was given out and received. In the life of a human being it may happen that the moon never comes to the full. In the life of some human beings it would seem, indeed, that the only mysterious phenomenon observable is that of perpetual eclipse. In the case of those afflicted with genius, whatever the form it may take, we are almost frightened to observe that there is nothing but a continuous waxing and waning of the moon. Rarer still are the anomalous ones who, having come to the full, are so terrified by the wonder of it that they spend the rest of their lives endeavoring to stifle that which gave them birth and being. The war of the mind is the story of the soul-split. When the moon was at full there were those who could not accept the dim death of diminution; they tried to hang full-blown in the zenith of their own heaven. They tried to arrest the action of the law which was manifesting itself through them, through their own birth and death, in fulfillment and transfiguration. Caught between the tides they were sundered; the soul departed the body, leaving the simulacrum of a divided self to fight it out in the mind. Blasted by their own radiance they live forever the futile quest of beauty, truth and harmony. Depossessed of their own effulgence they seek to possess the soul and spirit of those to whom they are attracted. They catch every beam of light; they reflect with every facet of their hungry being. instantly illumined, When the light is directed towards them, they are also speedily extinguished. The more intense the light which is cast upon them the more dazzling and blinding they appear. Especially dangerous are they to the radiant ones; it is always towards these bright and inexhaustible luminaries that they are most passionately drawn

J. Lynn – So, it’s the zombie apocalypse, right? Zombies are coming out of the ass, running amuck through buildings and streets. You’ve already almost died three times by this point and have been mutated by the T virus twice, which appears to be painful. Would you take time in your obviously hectic daily routine to do your hair and put makeup on?

Hunter S. Thompson – The mind of America is seized by a fatal dry rot – and it’s only a question of time before all that the mind controls will run amuck in a frenzy of stupid impotent fear. (In a letter dated 9-26-58)

Philip Roth – You think you know what a man is? You have no idea what a man is. You think you know what a daughter is? You have no idea what a daughter is. You think you know what this country is? You have no idea what this country is. You have a false image of everything. All you know is what a fucking glove is. This country is frightening. Of course she was raped. What kind of company do you think she was keeping? Of course out there she was going to get raped. This isn’t Old Rimrock, old buddy – she’s out there, old buddy, in the USA. She enters that world, that loopy world out there, with whats going on out there – what do you expect? A kid from Rimrock, NJ, of course she didn’t know how to behave out there, of course the shit hits the fan. What could she know? She’s like a wild child out there in the world. She can’t get enough of it – she’s still acting up. A room off McCarter Highway. And why not? Who wouldn’t? You prepare her for life milking the cows? For what kind of life? Unnatural, all artificial, all of it. Those assumptions you live with. You’re still in your olf man’s dream-world, Seymour, still up there with Lou Levov in glove heaven. A household tyrannized by gloves, bludgeoned by gloves, the only thing in life – ladies’ gloves! Does he still tell the one about the woman who sells the gloves washing her hands in a sink between each color? Oh where oh where is that outmoded America, that decorous America where a woman had twenty-five pairs of gloves? Your kid blows your norms to kingdom come, Seymour, and you still think you know what life is?” Life is just a short period of time in which we are alive. Meredith Levov, 1964. “You wanted Ms. America? Well, you’ve got her, with a vengeance – she’s your daughter! You wanted to be a real American jock, a real American marine, a real American hotshot with a beautiful Gentile babe on your arm? You longed to belong like everybody else to the United States of America? Well, you do now, big boy, thanks to your daughter. The reality of this place is right up in your kisser now. With the help of your daughter you’re as deep in the sit as a man can get, the real American crazy shit. America amok! America amuck! Goddamn it, Seymour, goddamn you, if you were a father who loved his daughter,” thunders Jerry into the phone – and the hell with the convalescent patients waiting in the corridor for him to check out their new valves and new arteries, to tell how grateful they are to him for their new lease on life, Jerry shouts away, shouts all he wants if it’s shouting he wants to do, and the hell with the rules of hte hospital. He is one of the surgeons who shouts; if you disagree with him he shouts, if you cross him he shouts, if you just stand there and do nothing he shouts. He does not do what hospitals tell him to do or fathers expect him to do or wives want him to do, he does what he wants to do, does as he pleases, tells people just who and what he is every minute of the day so that nothing about him is a secret, not his opinions, his frustrations, his urges, neither his appetite nor his hatred. In the sphere of the will, he is unequivocating, uncompromising; he is king. He does not spend time regretting what he has or has not done or justifying to others how loathsome he can be. The message is simple: You will take me as I come – there is no choice. He cannot endure swallowing anything. He just lets loose. And these are two brothers, the same parents’ sons, one for whom the aggression’s been bred out, the other for whom the aggression’s been bred in. “If you were a father who loved your daughter,” Jerry shouts at the Swede, “you would never have left her in that room! You would have never let her out of your sight!

J.C. Wickhart – I always seek tranquility, but what would I do if I happened to acquire such composure? I suppose that the boredom from lack of the absurd would expand to such a great weight, I would have to run amuck and shatter it, for my own twisted freedom. Why step out of the ordinary? People have been known to go insane when faced with unfamiliar conditions for extended periods of time. So who is to say it can’t go vice versa? Release the madness, release the demons. Chin high, spine erect, fists clinched, feet firm, balls out. Claim the moment, but disregard the aftermath.

John Marsden – I lay there with my mind running amuck, on the brink of madness. And somehow, gradually, early Sunday morning, I became calm. I can’t think of any other word for it. I was thinking about the beach poem again, and I started to feel that I was being looked after, that everything was OK. It was strange: if there was ever a time in my life when I had the right to feel alone this was it. But I lost that sense of loneliness. I felt like there was a force in the room with me, not a person, but I had a sense that there was another world, another dimension, and it would be looking after me. It was like, “This isn’t the only world, this is just one aspect of the whole thing, don’t imagine this is all there is.

Mark Vonnegut – I don’t think the people today who start hearing voices, stop eating and sleeping, and run amuck are likely to get good treatment. Having more knowledge, better diagnostic capabilities, better medications with fewer side effects, can’t make up for the fact that most patients are being treated by doctors, therapists, and hospitals, who are operating under constraints and incentives that reward non-treatment, non-hospitalization, non-therapy, non-follow-up, non-care. Lost to follow-up is the best outcome a health insurer can hope for.

Ray Bradbury – They run amuck; I let them. Pride of lions in the yard. Stare and they burn a hole in your retina. A common flower, a weed that no one sees, yes. But for us, a noble thing, the dandelion.

Mao Tse-tung – Imperialism will not last long because it always does evil things. It persists in grooming and supporting reactionaries in all countries who are against the people, it has forcibly seized many colonies and semi-colonies and many military bases, and it threatens the peace with atomic war. Thus, forced by imperialism to do so, more than 90 per cent of the people of the world are rising or will rise in struggle against it. Yet, imperialism is still alive, still running amuck in Asia, Africa and Latin America. In the West imperialism is still oppressing the people at home. This situation must change. It is the task of the people of the whole world to put an end to the aggression and oppression perpetrated by imperialism, and chiefly by U.S. imperialism.

Sample sentences:

If I did not wear torn pants, orthopedic shoes, frantic disheveled hair, that is to say, if I did not tone down my beauty, people would go mad. Married men would run amuck.

It was quiet in the cell. Rubashov heard only the creaking of his steps on the tiles. Six and a half steps to the door, whence they must come to fetch him, six and a half steps to the window, behind which night was falling. Soon it would be over. But when he asked himself, For what actually are you dying? he found no answer.It was a mistake in the system; perhaps it lay in the precept which until now he had held to be uncontestable, in whose name he had sacrificed others and was himself being sacrificed: in the precept, that the end justifies the means. It was this sentence which had killed the great fraternity of the Revolution and made them run amuck. What had he once written in his diary? “We have thrown overboard all conventions, our sole guiding principle is that of consequent logic; we are sailing without ethical ballast.

Dr. DeMarco nodded, motioning toward Carmine. I’m thankful for the Mazda damn thankful you didn’t return it scratched, he said, glaring at his father. I’m thankful to be out of that ridiculous boarding school. Thankful for music and my gun. I fucking love my gun. Haven looked at him with surprise as Dr. DeMarco laughed. It’s a nice gun. I checked it out. A 1911 .45 ACP. Where’d you get it?Carmine shrugged. Maybe I don’t recall. Fair enough, Dr. DeMarco said. Are you done? Uh, I’m thankful for you all, even if you get on my nerves sometimes, Carmine said. Oh, and orgasms definitely thankful for those. That’s enough, Dr. DeMarco said, shaking his head as he turned to her. What are you thankful for, child? She hesitated, her nerves running amuck. Having food to eat. A bed to sleep in, too.

Kate knocked on his door and sucked in some air when he opened the door fresh from a shower. His hair was wet and he had a towel wrapped low on his hips. Jeez, Kate said, staring at the towel, her mind running amuck over what the towel was hiding, unable to drag her eyes to Nick’s face. Is that a good jeez or a bad jeez? It’s just jeez. Don’t you have a robe? The room didn’t come with a robe. Okay, so that’s why you’re wearing the towel. I can see that. Makes perfect sense. A smile twitched at the corners of Nick’s mouth. Is there something I can do for you? No! Gosh. Absolutely not. Kate stared at the towel. She was pretty sure she saw it move.Nick tightened his grip on the towel. Kate? Yep? You’re staring. I know. I can’t help myself. Cute, Nick said.Kate squinched her eyes shut and wrinkled her nose. Ugh! I hate being cute. Cute is good. It’s not. I’m an FBI agent. There’s no cute in the FBI. Cute is goofy. I’d grab you and kiss you, but I’d lose my towel, and I’m afraid you’d faint at the sight of me naked. I think I could handle it. Nick dropped his towel

One day he trapped a large raven, whose wings he painted red, the breast green, and the tail blue. When a flock of ravens appeared over our hut, Lekh freed the painted bird. As soon as it joined the flock a desperate battle began. The changeling was attacked from all sides. Black, red, green, blue feathers began to drop at our feet. The ravens ran amuck in the skies, and suddenly the painted raven plummeted to the freshly-plowed soil. It was still alive, opening its beak and vainly trying to move its wings. Its eyes had been pecked out, and fresh blood streamed over its painted feathers. It made yet another attempt to flutter up from the sticky earth, but its strength was gone.

I would so rock at running amuck.

The free enterprise concept inherent in the economic model of capitalism should mean common people, or lower and middle class wage-earners, have greater potential to rise up and gain financial independence. In reality, however, free enterprise all too often leads to an almost total lack of government regulation that in turn allows the global elite to run amuck in Gordon Gecko-style financial coups.

Although Chief Judge Bazelon said in 1960 that we desperately need all the help we can get from modern behavioral scientists in dealing with the criminal law, the cold facts suggest no such desperation or crisis. Since the most reliable long-term crime data are on murder, what was the murder rate at that point? The number of murders committed in the United States in 1960 was less than in 1950, 1940, or 1930 even though the population was growing over those decades and murders in the two new states of Hawaii and Alaska were counted in the national statistics for the first time in 1960. The murder rate, in proportion to population, was in 1960 just under half of what it had been in 1934. As Judge Bazelon saw the criminal justice system in 1960, the problem was not with the so-called criminal population but with society, whose need to punish was a primitive urge that was highly irrational indeed, a deep childish fear that with any reduction of punishment, multitudes would run amuck. It was this vindictiveness, this irrationality of notions and practices regarding punishment that had to be corrected. The criminal is like us, only somewhat weaker, according to Judge Bazelon, and needs help if he is going to bring out the good in himself and restrain the bad. Society is indeed guilty of creating this special class of human beings, by its social failure for which the criminal serves as a scapegoat. Punishment is itself a dehumanizing process and a social branding which only promotes more crime. Since criminals have a special problem and need special help, Judge Bazelon argued for psychiatric treatment with new, more sophisticated techniques and asked: Would it really be the end of the world if all jails were turned into hospitals or rehabilitation centers?

Kids don’t act right. Sure it’s embarrassing when it happens but any reasonable person won’t fault a parent when a kid throws a fit. However, when a child doesn’t act right and a parent doesn’t act at all then we’ve got a problem.Parents get up off of your rears and parent your children. Please I beg you stop these little bedlamites from running amuck at church, in restaurants, at the movies, in the store or really anywhere that I may be.

In the old days we were concerned with mobs, with thousands of men running amuck in the streets. The mob has conquered completely. When the mob has grown so vast that you cannot see it, then it is everywhere.

Weddings, I began to understand, were vile, filthy things when they ran amuck.

The second jet, however, brought the promise of a third and a fourth. Here was a pattern. Jets are falling out of the sky. The world has gone amuck. A GPS malfunction, an EMP detonation, solar flares, a dozen disaster films, and science fiction plots. My brain is misfiring with all the possibilities but the real one.

SOMETIMES ON A PORCH in June, a girl begins to plunk her banjo; and after a spell of stillness, while the sound travels down their ear crinkles into their inmost feeling-chambers, the music starts to dance the people passing by. They toss like puppets on a bouncing sheet; like boys without a boat; they swing like weeds in the wind; they leap heptangularly about, dancing eccentric saltarellos, discovering that their springs are not so rusty. For even if you have built masterful aspen castles in your mind, have toppled whole forests to throttle the writhing elements into a liveably serene personal pond; if you have longtime sculled your ingenious fins to withstand the tumble-crazy currents; there is music that will dissolve your anchors, your sanctuaries, floating you off your feet, fetching you away with itself. And then you are a migrant, and then you are amuck; and then you are the music’s toy, juggled into its furious torrents, jostled into its foamy jokes, assuming its sparklyblue or greenweedy or brownmuddy tinges, being driven down to the dirgy bottom where rumble-clacking stones are lit by waterlogged and melancholy sunlight, warping back up to the surface, along with yew leaves and alewives and frog bones and other strange acquisitions snagged and rendered willy-nilly by the current, straggling away on its rambling cadenzas, with ever-changing sights freckled children on the bank, chicken choirs, brewing thunderclouds, june bugs perched in wild parsley until it spills you into a place whose dimensions make nonsense of your heretofore extraordinary spatial intelligence.

Myself and the Supreme Grand High-yu-Muck-amuck and head of.

He inhaled sharply. I’m glad to have you back. I nodded, swallowing thickly. I’m glad to be back. Hell, we all can agree on that. Luke picked up a donut. There’s nothing creepier than having a psychotic Apollyon caged in the basement. Ha, I said. Luke winked and then tossed the donut to me. I caught it. Sugar flew everywhere. Or waiting for her to break loose and run amuck, Deacon added as I took a bite. He glanced across the table. Or waiting for someone, no names mentioned, to not listen to us and go say hi. Olivia’s cheeks reddened as she stood. She approached slowly, waited for me to finish chewing. I started to apologize. I’m really sorry She socked me in the stomach. Hard. I doubled over, gasping for air. Gods.

In happiness and misery, remember one thing. Sex and wealth are the great symbols of manhood. They are inspiring symbols. They sustain life. But they are unbridled. There is no knowing when they will run amuck. Their reins must at all times be in the hands of duty. Oh man, desire is never satisfied by indulgence. Like the sacrificial fire, it ever grows with every offering.

It seemed that freedom of expression had run amuck, or had run as far as the Government would allow it to go.

Too often fear is fiction madly running amuck, all the while madly tracking muck across the floor of fact.

And here I was thinking I’d get to run amuck in Australia this time. Party hard. Maybe even get laid. Liev choked on his espresso. Chris laughed. Sorry. Didn’t mean to do that to you. And I’m not planning on getting laid. Haven’t got time for that, do I, Bethany? Bethany reappeared at Live’s side, placing a platter piled high with fresh fruit, cheese and water crackers on the coffee table. It’s not in your schedule, Mr. Huntley. See? Chris slumped back in the sofa, his face a mask of dramatic dismay. No time for fun. Guess it’s just the three of us for the next seven days. Can you deal with that, Liev? A hot lump filled Live’s throat. He shifted in the armchair, the crotch of his jeans uncomfortably tight. His stupid brain was presenting all sorts of options for the three of them for the next seven days. None of them remotely professional. I can deal with that.

The task of the modern individual is to move appropriately and effectively from disengaged spectator to attentive perceiver in order to slide easily into the social order. The starer, in contrast, is an undisciplined spectator arrested in an earlier developmental stage or one resistant to the attentiveness of the modern networker. The starer is a properly attentive spectator befuddled, halted in mid-glance, mobility throttled, processing checked, network run amuck. So the challenge of proper looking is converting the impulse to stare into attention, which is socially acceptable.

For as long as I can remember, it’s been fashionable for management consultants to attribute many of the challenges of bio pharmaceutical companies to scientists run amuck a perspective both summarized and challenged here.

In what would appear to be a case of government run amuck, at least two state agencies in Alabama won’t let people take pictures of public records, with an attorney for one equating the idea with stealing.

But forget those sci-fi images of your marketing robots running amuck, like HAL in Arthur Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Find us on Facebook

Copyright

This content is copyrighted and cannot be reproduced on other websites,print media,internet and social networking websites without permission.Legal action would be taken if copyright infringement takes place.